by Merry Farmer
Sword in hand, he wheeled around to find Robinson crumpling over and falling off his horse, Poole charging toward Albert, and William stared at the melee with wide-eyed panic, gun lowered. Peter charged toward his nephew.
“Drop your revolver, William,” he demanded.
William snapped out of his panic and raised his gun to Peter. He fired, but the gun didn’t go off. With a wordless cry, he hit the gun several times, then pointed it at Peter again.
Peter was close enough to strike. He swung his blade with all his might, slicing across William’s raised arm. The revolver and William’s hand tumbled to the ground.
William’s face curled into a rictus of horror, his mouth falling open as he stared at the bleeding stump where his hand had been. His silent scream found voice at last, and William spilled from his saddle, sprawling to the ground and writhing in agony as he screamed.
Heart pounding, Peter dropped his sword and rushed to his nephew’s side. He fell to his knees, gathering William in his arms. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he panted, holding William tight even though he fought and thrashed. “We’ll call for a doctor. You’ll be all right. We’ll start over.”
William continued to scream, his eyes rolling back in his head.
“Hold still, hold still, now,” Peter urged him, terrified by the wild, wounded animal that William had become. “It will be all right.”
A split-second later, another shot was fired. William jerked, then was still and silent. A dark hole appeared in his forehead, blood streaming down his face. Peter’s throat closed over the cry that wanted to rip out of him. He jerked his head up, eyes wide.
Poole stood a few feet away, smoking pistol raised. “Dead men tell no—”
Another shot rang out, and Poole dropped.
“Tales,” Malcolm finished, lowering his revolver.
The shots still rang in Peter’s ears, forming a high-pitched ringing that he would never forget. Surely, Malcolm had saved his life, but the dark glint in his friend’s eyes gave Peter pause.
He blinked, and sense started to return to him. He dropped William’s lifeless body and rocked back to his haunches. “Where’s Mariah?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“Up ahead.” Malcolm nodded down the road.
“Is she….”
“Unharmed. Go to her, and we’ll take care of this.”
Peter pushed to his feet, staggering a few steps. William’s body lay at his feet, Poole’s a few yards farther away. Robinson’s lifeless form was sprawled by the side of the road. The dead men’s horses had scattered at the sound of gunfire, but hadn’t gone farther than the field beside the road. Far ahead, Peter could see Mariah’s horse in the moonlight, beside a tree.
He launched into a jog, then a run. Too many parts of him were still numb, but his heart knew what it needed. He had to be sure Mariah was safe. He had to have her in his arms.
Mariah screamed when the first shots were fired. The way Peter fell from his horse convinced her he’d been shot. But when he landed on his feet and jumped toward her, those fears vanished. She opened her mouth, ready to help him fight, but he pushed her horse instead. The sword Mr. Snyder had armed her with when she announced she was going after the men flashed in the moonlight, but as Peter drew it, he must have nicked her mount’s backside. Her horse shouted and leapt forward, running for its life.
Mariah could do nothing but hold tight, leaning forward over the horse’s neck. A volley of shots followed, and fear filled her. She clenched her jaw and used all of her strength just to stay seated.
But that fear shifted at the sound of a woman screaming farther along the road. She knew in an instant it was Victoria, and urged her horse to go faster. The shots behind her stopped, and she pulled up on the reins as she neared a cluster of trees by the side of the road.
“Victoria?”
The terrified cries changed to panicked shouts of, “Mariah! Mariah!”
Mariah managed to control her mount enough to bring her to a stop. As soon as she unhooked her leg and slid to the ground, though, the injured animal danced away, bobbing its head. As much as Mariah wanted to see to it, she had Victoria to worry about.
Her sister sat at the base of one of the trees, her hands behind her back. The moonlight was bright enough for her to see the look of terror in Victoria’s eyes, as well as a rough gag that now hung loose around Victoria’s neck.
“Help me, help me,” Victoria yelped, panicked beyond the point of sense. “Help.”
Mariah rushed to her, crouching by her side and pulling Victoria into her arms. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
When Victoria didn’t hug her back, Mariah realized that her sister’s hands had been tied. Not only that, she had a bruise on her tear-streaked cheeks.
“What did he do to you?” Mariah demanded, moving so that she could work free whatever was binding Victoria’s hands. The knot in the rough rope around her sister’s wrists was so tight she wasn’t sure she’d be able to untie it.
“He doesn’t love me,” Victoria wailed. “He said he did, but he said such cruel things to me once we left Starcross Castle, and he…he wouldn’t stop when I told him to stop.”
White-hot rage filled Mariah’s gut. She had half a mind to find Peter’s sword and run William through, but she needed to free Victoria from her bonds first. Another shot split the air, then a final one moments later. At last the knot holding Victoria’s wrists together began to loosen.
“What about the other two?” Mariah asked, not wanting to know the answer. “Did they hurt you.”
Victoria shook her head, but burst into a fresh round of weeping instead of saying more. The moment her arms were free, she threw them around Mariah, clinging to her as if her life depended on it.
“It’s all right,” she said, smoothing her hand over her sister’s hair. “I’ve got you now. It’s over.”
“Mariah?” She heard Peter’s frantic cry before his shape materialized in the darkness. “Mariah!”
Mariah kissed her sister’s cheek then stood just as Peter reached them. He crashed into her with so much force that for a moment she thought she would fall over. But Peter caught her and held her close, so tightly that she couldn’t breathe. But she didn’t care. Peter was safe and whole and in her arms.
“You’re alive,” she panted, brushing her hands over his face, then kissing him.
He kissed her back hard, not out of passion, but with a relief that was so potent it had her aching for him.
“So are you,” he gasped, touching her face, her hair, her arms, every part of her he could.
“Victoria’s been hurt,” Mariah said at last, turning to her sister as Victoria tried to stand.
When Victoria stumbled and Mariah caught her, she realized her sister’s feet were still tied together. Victoria wailed and grasped tightly onto Mariah again with a grip that nearly strangled her. Mariah let her squeeze though. Victoria needed the comfort far more than she needed the air.
“Let me untie your feet,” Peter said, his voice calming as he crouched by Victoria’s side.
Once Victoria’s bonds were disposed of, the three of them waited where they were until Malcolm came for them.
“Albert’s gone to fetch the constable,” he said, looking grim and exhausted. “I’ll stay with the bodies until they return, but in the meantime, I suggest you take the ladies back to Starcross Castle.”
“Bodies?” Victoria squeaked.
Peter let out a weary breath. “Poole and Robinson…and William. They’re all dead.”
“Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry.” Mariah reached for him with one arm as Victoria continued to cling to her, weeping.
Peter took her hand and squeezed it, shaking his head. “I’ll fetch the horses.”
The ride back to Starcross Castle seemed to last forever, and yet Mariah felt as though she were drifting through unreality as they rode in silence. When they arrived at the castle, Mr. Snyder was there to greet them.
“I knew no good wo
uld come of this,” he said, gesturing for the stable-hands and footmen, all of whom were still awake even though it was well after midnight, to take the horses. “Mrs. Wilson has tea waiting, my lord.”
As they dragged themselves into the house, Peter paused to ask Mr. Snyder, “Did you send the sword with her?”
Mr. Snyder nodded once. “I thought you might need it.”
Peter nodded, but said no more. Mariah wanted to ask what happened to the sword, but the weary, drawn look of grief in Peter’s eyes kept her silent.
Ginny and Poppy were waiting in the front hall, and came to take Victoria up to her room. Mariah went with them, helping to strip Victoria from her tattered and dirty clothes and to bathe her before dressing her in a clean nightgown and putting her into bed. Victoria cried herself to sleep, but at least she slept.
“I’ll stay with her, my lady,” Poppy said, taking a seat in the chair by the window.
Mariah nodded to the faithful maid, then dragged her weary body out into the hall.
“Do you need my help, my lady?” Ginny asked.
“I probably will tomorrow,” Mariah told her as they walked down the hall to the door to Peter’s room. “But tonight, I just want to be with my husband.”
Ginny nodded in understanding, curtsied, then left as Mariah retreated to the bedroom.
Peter sat hunched over at his desk, his head in his hands. He looked up when Mariah entered, and she could tell he’d been weeping. He covered it with a sharp sniff, wiping his face and rising from his chair.
“Go on,” she sighed, crossing to take him into her arms. “You can cry. He was your family, the last of your family.”
“No.” Peter shook his head, resting his cheek against her head. “You are my family. Our children are my family.”
Mariah smiled in spite of herself, though her joy was dulled by the grief she could feel radiating from Peter. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”
They shed their clothes, not bothering to hang or fold them, and climbed into bed together. They were too exhausted to make love, but just lying together, giving each other comfort and affection was all either of them needed.
It was well into the morning by the time Mariah awoke. The bed was warm, but Peter had already gotten up. He sat at his desk in his robe, rubbing his forehead as he studied a letter in his hand. Mariah stretched awake, scooted to the edge of the bed, and turned to her side. She watched him in silence for a while, her emotions a tempestuous mix of grief on his behalf, anger for Victoria, relief that William was gone, and a calm, steady joy, like the dawn after a storm.
He must have felt her gaze. He glanced up, and a weary smile spread across his lips, bringing a hint of new life to his lined face.
“What are you reading?” she asked.
He blew out a breath, then stood and walked to the bed. “It’s a report from Malcolm about his dealings with the constable last night.” He sat on the bed.
Mariah pushed herself to a sitting position, not bothering to cover herself when the bedcovers dropped to her waist. “What does he say?”
Peter showed her the short letter. “The constable acknowledges that the men who were killed were killed in self-defense. Poole and Robinson were wanted in London, and Scotland Yard has been informed.” He lowered the letter. “Snyder has already started going through William’s things. The ambush was planned more than a week ago. It was the reason Poole and Robinson came to Starcross Castle. William’s creditors put a price on his head, but somehow William convinced them to settle for my death instead of his.”
“That’s awful.” Mariah put her arm around him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“It’s over now,” he said, his voice hollow.
“It’s over,” Mariah repeated, pushing aside his robe to kiss his bare shoulder. “And as horrible as the ending was, all we can do is look to the future. A future where nothing is keeping us apart and no one will stop us from having a long, happy life together.”
He smiled, twisting so that he could draw her into his arms and kiss her. Through the shock and the grief, Mariah could feel that the two of them would move forward, happier than ever.
“I was going to write to your parents,” Peter said at length, “but I thought you might want to write instead.”
“I will.” Mariah sighed, filling with sadness at the thought of everything she’d have to say. “I don’t know if it’s what she would want, but perhaps we could offer to have Victoria stay here for a while.”
“Here?” Peter blinked at her. “Wouldn’t this place be filled with painful memories?”
“Possibly. But at least she wouldn’t have to face all the people who know her at home. It’s quiet here. And if she stays long enough, she’ll have a nephew or niece to lift her spirits.”
“She will.” Peter rested his hand on Mariah’s belly. “I still can’t believe we’ve been so lucky so soon. I worry, though….”
His words trailed off, but Mariah knew exactly what he was thinking. She rested her hand on top of his. “This baby will be born,” she said, so firm it was as if she were scolding him. “I know it. And after this one, there will be more. As many as you’d like.”
He smiled, so much happiness in his eyes, in spite of the pain, that the years seemed to drop away. “I want whatever you want,” he said. “I could be content with just you in my arms for the rest of my life.”
Mariah laughed. “No, you couldn’t.” She brushed her hand along his stubbly jaw, then kissed his lips. “You need love, Peter. You need mountains of affection, a house full of children who adore their papa. And nothing will make me happier than giving you that life. It’s what I was made for.”
“I love you,” he said, emotion thick in his voice.
“And I love you,” she answered. “I always will.”
Epilogue
The winter wind howling against the walls of Starcross Castle, swirling fresh snow through the grey skies, was bitter, but it was the least of Peter’s worries. He paced from his desk to the door and back again, nearly knocking his shin against the corner of the bed as he went.
“There, there, old friend.” Edmund caught him in the middle of one pass and thumped his back. “She’ll be just fine. She’s a strong girl, always has been.”
Before Peter could reply, a cry sounded from Mariah’s room. A cry of pain. Peter’s gut twisted, and he marched toward the door to his dressing room.
Again, Edmund caught him and stopped him. “There’s nothing you can do in there but get in the way.”
“I can be there,” Peter said, shaking out of Edmund’s grip and storming into his dressing room.
In spite of protests from everyone from Snyder to the midwife to Mrs. Travers, from the moment Mariah had gone into labor, he had insisted every one of the doors from her room, through the dressing rooms, to his room remain open. In exchange, he’d promised to stay in his room and not get in the way. But that promise had become impossible as Mariah’s cries and grunts grew louder and more anxious.
They’d made it through nine months of pregnancy together, faced the turmoil of William’s sudden death together, and helped each other and Victoria recover from the ordeal together. He couldn’t stand by and let Mariah go through the most important moment of their life alone.
“There you are, my dear. I see the head,” the midwife was in the middle of saying as Peter marched into the room.
He stopped short at the sight that met him. Mariah sat on the edge of the bed, her mother and a pile of pillows supporting her back. The midwife sat on a stool in front of her, reaching between her legs. Victoria stood next to the midwife with a towel ready and waiting. Ginny and Poppy hovered on either side of the bed, looking as though they were ready for anything. But it was Mariah who instantly had his full attention. She was drenched in sweat, her dark hair plastered to her head, face red and contorted in pain. The sight broke his heart.
Until she looked his way.
“Peter,” she shouted through her panting, and re
ached out for him.
He didn’t hesitate. He ran to her, sliding onto the bed by her side and looping an arm around her back. He was only marginally conscious of knocking Mrs. Travers out of the way. When he opened his mouth to ask how Mariah was, nothing but wordless sound came out.
“Easy now, easy. We’re almost there,” the midwife said, shooting him a nasty look.
“My lord, what are you doing here?” Mrs. Travers gasped, looking mortally offended. “Fathers do not attend births.”
“This one does,” Peter said.
“But—”
“It’s coming. Push now, dearie.”
Everything else was forgotten as Mariah gritted her teeth and pushed. The sound she made was excruciating for Peter to listen to, but he ignored it like he’d ignored the sounds of battle ages ago, giving Mariah his hand to squeeze. Which she did. So hard he nearly cried out along with her.
“Here we go, here we go.” The midwife shifted, intent on the miracle in process.
There was a strange sound, Mariah let out a final cry, then collapsed in exhaustion, and Victoria rushed forward.
Then a tiny, furious wail rent the air.
The midwife did something Peter couldn't see, then said, “Congratulations, my lord. It’s a boy.” She held up a screaming, red-mottled, sticky infant with a cord hanging from his belly.
Peter had never seen anything so horrifyingly beautiful in his life. He was stunned, mesmerized as his son—his son—flailed his tiny fists in the air. Peter’s eyes stung and his throat closed, but he had never been happier in his life.
The midwife slid the baby onto Mariah’s belly while she continued her work with the afterbirth. Mariah wept openly as she embraced their son. “He’s so perfect,” she said, blinking back tears.
“You’re perfect,” Peter insisted. He scooted farther onto the bed so that he could embrace her and their son together. The moment was so beautiful that he could hardly keep his thoughts together, but one thing jumped to the front of his mind. “Are you well?” he asked, kissing Mariah’s forehead and brushing back her sweat-dampened hair.